


Families are like Fudge - mostly Sweet, with a few Nuts.

by Vamillepudding



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Feels, Fluff and Humor, John is a free-wheeling bisexual, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21520474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: John meets Alfie in a bar, and promptly goes home with him.Tommy meets Alfie the next morning, though he does not yet know the man’s name – he only sees him as Guy Who Is Standing Naked In My Kitchen.***Or:Five times Alfie met a Shelby family member before he met Tommy, and one time Tommy had him all to himself.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 10
Kudos: 226
Collections: Peaky Blinders Exchange Round Two: Season 5 Edition





	Families are like Fudge - mostly Sweet, with a few Nuts.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hrafnsmal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsmal/gifts).



I: John

John meets Alfie in a bar, and promptly goes home with him. 

Tommy meets Alfie the next morning, though he does not yet know the man’s name – he only sees him as Guy Who Is Standing Naked In My Kitchen. 

Blankly, Tommy asks, “What are you doing?” 

Naked Guy turns around from where he’s been frying something – eggs? Do they have eggs? Did Naked Guy go _grocery shopping_?– on the stove. It is perhaps the very first time that stove has been used since Tommy and John moved in. Up until now, Tommy wasn’t entirely sure that it worked. “You Johnnyboy’s flatmate, then?” asks Naked Guy cheerfully. “That lad sure knows how to have a good time, if you know what I mean. Very flexible. Want some eggs?” 

“I’m his brother,” Tommy answers automatically before his brain catches up with all the implications of this brief exchange. “Wait- JOHN?”

That last bit is directed in the direction of John’s room, shouted as he’s leaving the kitchen, hoping Naked Guy won’t burn it down while he’s gone. He probably won’t. Maybe. 

John’s room is at the end of the hall, so that’s where Tommy goes. He doesn’t bother to knock; if John had wanted privacy, he wouldn’t have moved in with another Shelby sibling. 

“John, wake up,” Tommy says. John is lying in bed, mostly hidden under the covers, and he doesn’t react to Tommy’s presence in any way.

For all Tommy knows, his brother is dead, killed by their unclothed home invader. “John. _John_. If you don’t wake up, I’m going to set your curtain on fire.” 

“You wouldn’t,” John says as he finally emerges. He has, unlike Tommy, no dark circles under his eyes that might stem from anything but sound sleep. Some days, Tommy envies him so much it hurts. 

“Maybe,” Tommy says, putting away his lighter. “There’s a man in the kitchen, and I want to know who he is.” 

“Oh, that’s Alfie,” John says dismissively. “Picked him up at Harry’s yesterday.” 

“I see,” says Tommy, and leaves. A second later, he’s back, sitting down on the bed despite John’s protests. “No, actually I don’t see. Explain it to me.”

John has never looked more put-out. Actually, that’s a lie. He frequently looks this put-out, at multiple occasions, like when the milk is gone, or when it’s his turn to do the weekly ring-Polly-phone call, or when anyone asks anything of him at all. “Jesus fuck, Tom, what do you want me to say? We just had a good time at the bar, so I asked him back here. It was a blast.” 

“A blast,” Tommy repeats. It is unclear to him how his younger brother has managed to go from confidently-straight to confidently-non-straight in less than twelve hours; especially since Tommy’s own sexuality has been largely defined by angsty eternal monologues. At 27 years old, Tommy now wishes nothing more than to go back in time in order to punch his 16-year-old-self in the dick. 

“It’s what I said, innit?” says John. “Now will you get out of my fucking room?” 

“Going,” Tommy calls over his shoulder, already on his way back to the kitchen. 

Which is empty. 

Tommy does a quick search of the flat, which doesn’t take long, since there’s not that much space to search. He finds: Nothing. No naked man anywhere. 

Alfie, apparently, has eaten his eggs, washed the dishes, and then finally went on to do what every one night stand in the history of mankind has done ever: Snuck out while no one was looking. 

Serves John right, Tommy thinks. Heartbreak might be even better than the non-existent sexuality crisis. Anything, he muses, to see his younger brother’s feelings even a little hurt.

***

II: Ada

John, it turns out, is not hurt. John is fine. John has barely noticed Alfie’s absence, and in the week that’s passed since then, he’s gone out every night. He never brought anyone home again, or if he did, they left before Tommy could see them. 

All should be good, except then on Sunday, precisely six days since the kitchen incident, Tommy draws the short straw and therefore has to attend Ada’s art exhibit. 

Ada has recently started an Art major, thus continuing the great tradition of Shelby siblings starting and eventually dropping out of college. Well – she’s done the starting part, alright. Tommy and Arthur have a bit of a bet going on about the dropping out part. Before that takes place, however (hopefully in seven months, fingers crossed), Tommy has to go to yet another exhibit put on by overly enthusiastic college students. 

They’re always terrible. Every single time. What’s worse is the sheer pretentiousness of the whole affair. It would be near unbearable, if not for the steady supply of free champagne. 

Tommy is currently standing in front of a particularly bad painting that appears to be simply a red handprint on an otherwise blank canvas. Probably the metaphor is supposed to be blood; it would work if it weren’t so obviously cheap paint. 

A closer look makes Tommy realise that this is, in fact, Ada’s work. Goddamnit. 

“Tommy?” comes Ada’s voice from somewhere behind him. When he turns, it’s to the sight of his little sister in a top hat, which might be ironic, or part of the dresscode – Tommy feels certain that he’s seen several art students with top hats already. 

On her arm hangs a guy with a considerable beard. He, too, is wearing a top hat. Tommy’s eye starts to twitch when he realises that he knows this guy. 

“This is my art instructor,” Ada says. “Alfie, this is my brother Tommy.” 

“Don’t I know you from somewhere, mate?” Alfie asks, squinting at Tommy. 

“Yes,” says Tommy flatly, and abruptly walks away. It takes Ada a second or two to catch up with him; when she does, she punches his arm. 

“What are you doing? Where are you going? You know the family rules, you have to stay for at least half an hour-“

“Just going out for a fag,” Tommy says. “Tell your art instructor that he broke our John’s heart, alright?” 

“He what?” Ada asks, but then Tommy is already out on the fire escape, the door falling shut behind him. 

He sits down on top of the stairs and lights a cigarette, and by the time he’s halfway finished, Alfie sits down next to him. 

“There’s a rumour at the party that some cunt is out here sulking, so I thought I’d have a look,” he says, and holds out his hand expectantly. When Tommy hands him the fag, Alfie mouths _thank you_ and promptly flings it over the edge. Appalled, Tommy stares at him. “No reason to be inviting cancer to your doorstep,” Alfie explains with the smug air of superiority of any straight-laced person talking to a smoker. 

“You owe me a new pack now.” 

“Pack?” Alfie laughs. “That, my friend, was not a pack, though I can appreciate the shameless opportunism.”  
“I charge interest.”

Alfie barks out another laugh. “Lawyer, are you? No, wait. Don’t say anything. I shall pull together my wits and read your thoughts. Banker?” 

“No.” 

“Architect?” Alfie has started waving his hands about; one of them catches Tommy in the face. “I reckon it must be some boring fucking shit like that, anyway. Alright, I give up. Game over. Tell me, or forever hold your peace.” 

Tommy smiles. “I’m a hitman.” 

It’s almost comical how Alfie’s eyes widen at that, just for a split moment. Then he visibly commands his facial features into his control again. “Now that, my friend, that _is_ a surprise. Rare is the day that you meet someone with a sense of humour at a college art exhibit.” 

“You’re welcome,” Tommy says, and, thinking of how he woke up this morning to find both bread and cereal gone, _again_ , he adds spitefully, “John misses you.” 

“Fuck you, he doesn’t,” Alfie says, laughing again. “What’s with all this heartbroken nonsense your sister went on about, anyway? You so desperate for another brother, even if it is only by marriage? One would think two siblings are enough for any man.” 

“Four.” 

“ _Four_? Christ. I can’t take this. I’m going back inside, but I expect to see you and your four siblings very soon. Possibly on the Jeremy Kyle show, eh, Tommy? Ta krowa nie jest na sprzedaż. That’s polish for _fare thee well_.” Alfie is gone before Tommy can think of a smart remark. Maybe that’s for the best; so far the only reaction he’s come up with would be punching Alfie, and that’s out of the question. If Ada needs anything in life, it’s an art instructor.

***

III: Finn

Tommy does, in fact, see Alfie very soon. It starts like this: A phone call by Polly. Who is ringing to tell him that she’s sick, and cannot attend Finn’s parent-teacher-conference. 

“Make Arthur go,” Tommy says. He’s a bit distracted at the moment: The sink needs fixing, and technically it’s John’s turn on Annoying Household Chores, but he once watched his little brother glue his fingers together with superglue “just to see what happens” (an embarrassing hospital visit, that’s what happens). He doesn’t even want to imagine what John would do to a sink. 

“Arthur’s on a worktrip.” 

“Make John go,” Tommy says, and tightens a screw. Immediately, a splash of dirty water shoots in his face. 

“It’s the same school John was kicked out off. Do you _want_ Finn to make a bad impression by proxy?” 

“Fine, so-“ 

“Don’t even think about it,” says Ada from the other end of the line. Damnit. She must have planned this from the moment Polly announced her flu in the family group chat yesterday: Visit the sick aunt, gain enough sympathy to avoid parent-teacher-conference. Simple. Tommy is annoyed beyond measure that he didn’t come up with this himself. “I’m _busy_. Besides, Tom, it’s a Friday night. What plans could you possibly have?” 

While Tommy is still busy processing the fact that his little sister thinks he has no friends, Polly regains control over the phone. “You’re going, and that’s final. Seven o’clock sharp. Wear a suit.” 

She hangs up at the same moment that Tommy realises the kitchen is now flooded.

***

Finn is attending the same school all his siblings attended (John for slightly less time than the rest): Mountainview Institute. Seeing as the school is in Birmingham, there are no mountains anywhere in sight, which has become a running joke among students and teachers alike over century since its foundation. 

Stepping through the iron gates for the first time in years is weird. It’s very weird. When was he here last? Ada’s graduation, maybe, although then again, Tommy vaguely remembers her being excluded from that for a reason he’s forgotten. Perhaps she excluded herself? Some sort of statement? Who knows.

Decade-old feelings of imprisonment and oppression emerge from places within himself that Tommy had believed disappeared. He’s half-tempted to follow old instincts and make his way for the school basement, where the school’s big band practices once a week, and where on all other weekdays the potheads gather – but no, his little brother’s future awaits. 

Finn’s in 6th grade now, or maybe 7th. Either way, his classroom is easy enough to find. 

Clearly, though, all the other parents-slash-guardians have found it too, and much earlier, because the room is full when Tommy enters it.

He looks at his watch; it’s only five minutes past seven. He’s practically early. 

Tommy takes a seat at the very back of the classroom on one of those chairs meant for much smaller people. Actually, maybe Finn is in 4th grade after all, now that he thinks of it. 

It’s because of his position at the back that he doesn’t immediately see who’s entered the room. As long as it’s not Mr Abernathy, Tommy’s sixth form History teacher and still cause of his more disturbing nightmares, Tommy figures it’ll be fine. 

Then the teacher says, “Let me start off by saying that I am beyond glad all of you could make it. I’m thrilled, actually. So thrilled. Ecstatic, now that I think of it. Yes, I am ecstatic to get to spend my free time, on a Friday night no less, with all of you, in this place of education and joy. Very ecstatic,” and Tommy’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. 

It is, of course, Alfie. 

“Who is that?” he whispers to the woman sitting next to him. She gives him a dirty look. 

“That’s Mr Solomons? Our children’s English teacher? Has been for three years now?” 

“There’s no need to sound so judgemental,” Tommy tells her, this time forgetting to lower his voice. Immediately the sound of a cane hitting a blackboard comes. It’s not a very pleasant sound, but it certainly draws all attention back to Alfie, who looks thunderous. 

“Perhaps I have failed to make myself clear. This is my free time, which I have chosen to dedicate to you, as you in turn have chosen to dedicate your free time to me. So if I’m not entertaining enough to keep your attention for more than _five fucking seconds_ , I suggest you leave these sacred halls. No, really. Go. We’ll wait.” 

The overly judgemental mum has gone red in the face. She says, “Sorry,” while Alfie nods gravely along. Tommy feels like if he stays here any time longer, he’ll start getting actual, PTSD-akin flashbacks to his own schooldays. 

To make matters worse, Alfie now says, “What about you there in the back, eh? Think you can keep your mouth shut?”  
Tommy stands, and sees recognition cross over Alfie’s face. The furious expression gives way to something else, something that Tommy can’t identify. 

“Well?” Alfie says, lips twitching. 

“No,” Tommy says, silently apologising to Finn and Polly. 

Alfie nods, like he expected this. “Alright then. Off you go. Make way, ladies and gentlemen, so that you may part for him like the red sea. Careful not to touch, you might cut yourself on this man’s temper. Or his cheekbones.” 

Tommy leaves. 

On Monday, Finn texts him. The text contains a series of emojis Tommy doesn’t know how to interpret, and, finally, WHAT DID YOU SAY TO MY ENGLISH TEACHER HE JUST ASKED ME ABOUT HITMEN 

Tommy wonders how inappropriate it would be if he asked his 10 year old brother to get his teacher’s number.

***

IV: Arthur

Five times a year, Tommy has to purchase a birthday gift for a family member. In June it’s Arthur’s turn, and as always, Tommy spends about a week debating possible presents, another week where he forgets all about it, and is left with one day on which to come up with something last-minute. 

In the end, he goes with an amazon gift card, which he proudly presents to Arthur. It is the exact same gift Tommy has given Arthur for five years in a row. 

“Really, Tom? You couldn’t come up with anything better?” Ada says. She’s already tipsy, even though she only arrived a couple of minutes ago. It is entirely possibly that she was already tipsy when she came here. 

“Ada, you can judge me when you stop giving us the Communist Manifesto. Every year.” 

“Joke’s on you,” Ada says proudly. “I got him something different this year.” At that precise moment, Arthur tears the wrapping off yet another gift. It’s a card, which he unfolds and studies for a couple of seconds. Finally, he says, “What the _fuck_ is goat yoga?”

***

Goat yoga, as it turns out, takes place each Sunday morning half an hour outside of Birmingham, on some farm. Tommy didn’t even know there are farms here at all, but life has a way of surprising you. 

He has the ungrateful job of driving Arthur this time, since Linda has taken their car to some special church group trip, and John lost his licence after getting one too many speeding tickets. Tommy naturally has never gotten a single speeding ticket in his life, because he’s not a moron (his words) / has a stick up his arse (John’s words). 

“Alright, here we are. I’ll see you in an hour.” 

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Sit in the car and wait for you, I suppose,” Tommy says truthfully. He realises his mistake immediately, but it’s too late. 

“Don’t be silly, let me show you around. You’ll like it,” Arthur cheerfully pronounces, thus sealing Tommy’s fate. 

Four weeks have passed since the birthday party, and according to Ada, Arthur has attended goat yoga class every Sunday. If this is because he genuinely enjoys it, because Linda made him to get him out of the house for a bit, or because he doesn’t want to hurt Ada’s feelings, who’s to say? That doesn’t matter. What matters is that now he’s roped Tommy into it, too. 

Tommy doesn’t know what exactly he expected from goat yoga, but somehow, it wasn’t this: Exactly what the name entails. There’s people (mostly middleaged women) on yoga mats, and all around them, there’s goats. One of them bumps into Tommy; Tommy stares at it until it goes away. 

“There’s the instructor,” Arthur says, and Tommy follows his outstretched hand to – oh no. 

“Where are you going?” asks Arthur. 

“Back to the car,” Tommy says. He tries to be as quick and sneaky about this as possible, and curses quietly when someone falls into step next to him. 

“Thomas Shelby,” Alfie proclaims. He’s never sounded happier. “I thought that was you I saw. On the seventh day, God rested, but as we know, rest is for the wicked, and there shan’t be wickedness found in this yoga class. So are you joining us, then?” 

Tommy looks Alfie up and down, takes note of the man’s yoga pants, his bare feet (what’s up with this, anyway, why is everyone barefoot? Sure, it’s July, but this is _Birmingham_ ), his tanktop which grants the viewer peaks at tattoos Tommy has already seen in their entirety. 

“I preferred you naked,” Tommy says coldly once he’s done staring and silently judging. 

Alfie appears unfazed by this. “Most people do. Look, if you’re not gonna join, you might as well help out. No use in you sitting in a car for an hour, is there? There’s a feeding bucket over there, and a couple horses in the barn. Run along, now.” 

Tommy does not run along. Tommy says, “Horses?” He tries to keep his voice as even as possible, but Alfie must hear something anyway, because he heaves a sigh. 

“Fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re a horse girl.” 

“Alfie.” 

“Fine. _Fine_. The black one’s got an injured foot, but the brown one is good to go, I reckon. They’re my auntie’s, she won’t mind you riding them, except the black one, because of the foot injury. Thomas, did you hear what I fucking said?” 

“Not the black one,” Tommy dutifully repeats, shouting over his shoulder as he walks over to the barn. Alfie says something else, but Tommy doesn’t catch that part. Possibly that’s for the best; it sounded a lot like something he would then have to turn around and hit Alfie for. 

Goat yoga ends, as promised, after an hour, but Tommy stays out much longer than that. Arthur changes from brotherly-affectionate to pissed-as-hell over the course over the next two hours and ends up threatening to leave Tommy at the farm. That’s alright though, because once they get back to the car, it’s to find a rather accurate depiction of two horses fucking spray-painted on it. 

“Good thing we took you car, eh, Tommy?” Arthur says, his good mood immediately reinstated. Tommy slams the door shut and refuses to say a single word until he drops Arthur off.

***

V: Polly

Polly has hosted a biannual family tea party for as long as Tommy can remember. It used to be bigger, he thinks; he has hazy memories of distant aunts and uncles at these things telling him how much he’s grown or asking about his performance at school. It’s possible that they stopped coming because one or all of the closer Shelby family members alienated them, but then, it’s equally possible Polly uninvited them. Either way, they’re left with this: The ever-same six people, who see each other practically constantly anyway, coming together twice a year for yet another family event that might have had a purpose once upon a time, but is now continued out of some misplaced sense of tradition. 

Except when Tommy, Ada and John arrive (they’ve been carpooling, partly because Ada insisted, partly because now Tommy, too, has lost his licence after he lend his car to John _once_ and John promptly managed to get _arrested_ in it, for _speeding_ , _again_ , Tommy is not mad, he’s just _disappointed_ ), there’s seven settings. 

“Maybe Linda is talking to us again,” Ada muses, though she sounds as sceptic about this as Tommy feels. 

“Actually,” Polly says, “we’re having a new guest today.” She’s smiling the way she only ever smiles at her favourite family member. Finn is nowhere in sight though, so who could she- 

“No,” Tommy says. “This isn’t happening.” He says it to no one in particular, just a general sort of statement, maybe directed at the universe. 

It is not, however, the universe that replies. It’s Alfie fucking Solomons, at his family tea party, and he says, “All Shelbys together in one room, my word. This feels like a crossover, doesn’t it feel like a bloody crossover to you?” 

“I only knew him as Finn’s teacher,” Polly is explaining, evidently unconcerned about the fact that this man is _in her home_ despite the fact that this is slowly driving Tommy insane, “but then he ran me over the other day, and we just got talking because it turned out he sees my family more than I do these days, apparently. He’s been helping out around the house sometimes ever since. I thought it’d be nice to invite him today, give him my thanks. Come sit down, everyone.” 

“Alfie-“ Tommy starts as everyone is starting to take seats. He doesn’t quite know how he intends to finish this sentence, but then it turns out it doesn’t matter, because John exclaims, “Alfie, mate! I knew I’d seen you around!” 

Ignoring Tommy entirely, Alfie turns to John. “If it isn’t my favourite Shelby.” And then, to Tommy’s horror, Alfie adds: “Want to get out of here?” 

“You’ll do no such thing, the food is ready,” Polly scolds, and Alfie _fucking reaches over to pat her arm_. Tommy has never seen anyone do that. Polly isn’t the sort of person you just touch, but there Alfie is, handing out casual touches like they’re free champagne. 

“Five minutes. Ten at most. We shall be back at this lovely table before you even have the chance to miss us. We’ll be quick as lightning.” 

“C’m on, Pol,” John says, his tone precisely the same as when he used to convince her to give him extra dessert as a kid. Tommy resents that tone; he never got extra dessert. “Just a sec.”

“Fine, hurry up,” Polly says. She sounds fondly exasperated. Tommy half-wonders if he’s entered some sort of parallel universe in the last half hour or so, a new world where it’s perfectly fine to have your nephew and some random bloke have sex “quick as lightning” before lunch. 

So Alfie and John disappear into one of the upstairs rooms like that’s in any way appropriate during a family meeting, and Tommy stays downstairs with the rest of his family and a sick feeling in his gut. Polly never should have started that extra dessert thing, he thinks dully. Who even does that, anyway? Who teaches kids that all you need in life is charm and people will give you free things?  
Tommy himself emerged from his childhood with an entirely different lesson: Life is unfair, thus if you want things to happen, you must just do it yourself. 

While Polly pours tea for everyone and goes to check on the lasagne in the oven (which Alfie must have made, since Polly can cook as well as the rest of the family, which is to say, not at all), Ada leans over to whisper, “Funny how we all know Alfie, right?”

Tommy takes a sip of tea and says delicately, “Hilarious.” 

Ada wouldn’t be his sister if she didn’t know him well, though, so she frowns and says, “Wait. Wait, is Alfie the guy Arthur said you liked?” 

Rather calmly, Tommy stands up, neatly folds his napkin, and announces, “I think that’s Arthur’s car outside. I’m going to kill him.” 

“Tommy!” Ada says at the same time that Finn says mournfully, “I wish I was adopted.” 

Tommy does not, of course, kill Arthur. He simply gives him a black eye in the great tradition of the Shelby brothers, where violence is an accepted, expected and sometimes encouraged way to deal with conflicts. It says a lot about their family that when they return to the table, at around the same time that John and Alfie come back as well, no one so much as stares. Even Alfie doesn’t engage, to Tommy’s silent surprise. 

In fact, Alfie does not say much of anything to Tommy for the entire remainder of the tea party, and excuses himself as soon as possible. Tommy refuses to be annoyed by this. 

Tommy and John arrive in their flat close to midnight, and Tommy has just entered his room when the door opens and John comes in, his usual saunter replaced by something that is still definitely sauntering, but somehow guiltier. 

“So do we like, need to talk?” John says. 

“No,” Tommy says instantly. “Nothing to talk about. Get out.” 

“If I get out, are you going to stare at the wall all night and think about your tragic fate?” 

Tommy doesn’t reply, since the answer is obvious. John nods, guilty expression somehow becoming even guiltier. 

“Right. Cool. So, me and Alfie, that’s just a bit of a laugh, isn’t it? It’s not like. Serious.” 

“I don’t care,” Tommy says, aware that he does not sound like he doesn’t care. In fact, he sounds like he cares quite a lot. Damnit. 

“Cool,” John says again. “So it’s totally fine if I bring him to Ada’s birthday as my date, right?” 

Tommy thinks his teeth have never been so tightly clenched as he says, “Totally fine.” 

Just like that, John looks annoyed, but not like when the milk is gone or when it’s his turn for the weekly Polly-phone call. Actually, Tommy thinks the last time John looked like this was back in school, when someone called Tommy a poof, mere seconds before John beat the shit out of him and got expelled for his trouble. 

“Jesus,” John says, “what is wrong with you? Do you _always_ have to lie?”

Once more, Tommy doesn’t answer. His brother scoffs, and snaps, “I’m not bringing him as my date, just so you know. But it would serve you right if we got fucking married tomorrow, alright?” 

Tommy says nothing. John waits for a bit and then he leaves. 

Tommy spends the rest of the night staring at the wall and thinking about his tragic fate.

***

\+ I : Tommy

Here’s the thing: Tommy has spent the past 27 years denying himself things he wanted. The reasons were always good: Money, or time, or convenience. Sometimes it was all three together. 

He’s man enough to admit that in these past few months, Things He Wants have mostly all turned into Alfie. 

Alfie, who apparently teaches college art, middle school English, and suburban mum goat yoga. Alfie, who fixed Polly’s leaking pipe last week. 

Alfie, who has hooked up with John an undeterminable number of times. 

Alfie, who might not even be interested. 

Alfie, who is probably not interested. 

Right? 

Because this isn’t high school, Tommy wants to skip the whole dance routine and just cut right to it. That is, after all, how he’s gotten most of his sexual encounters so far. But to do all that Tommy needs to find Alfie first. 

It shouldn’t be a problem. Alfie talks to literally every single Shelby family member except Tommy on a regular basis. There’s been talk of inviting him to Christmas. 

So it _should be_ the easiest thing in the world to find Alfie and talk to him. Should be. 

Except Alfie has recently taken a sick leave from work, a day after Polly’s tea party, and in the week that’s passed since then, no one has heard a word from him. 

Tommy tries the gentle approach first: He asks Ada for Alfie’s number, and proceeds to call it every ten minutes. No one picks up.

Therefore he goes with approach number two: On Friday morning, he walks his youngest brother to school, hides in the bathroom until classes start, and then breaks into the school registry office, where he finds Alfie’s address neatly written down. He memorises it mere seconds before the alarms start (not that he’s worried about those. All his best childhood stories fall under the category of what people might call the Morally Grey Area). 

In the twenty seconds or so it takes Alfie to open the door after Tommy’s incessant knocking, Tommy experiences various stages of panic. Maybe Alfie will laugh. Maybe Alfie will tell him he’s desperately in love with John. Maybe- 

The door opens. 

“You look like shit,” Tommy says, because it’s true. Alfie looks like he’s auditioning for The Walking Dead. 

“Yeah, well, it’s called the flu, mate, innit? I won’t be winning any pageants soon. Come on in, if you must.” 

Tommy follows Alfie into the living room (surprisingly nice, though currently littered with used tissues). “I didn’t think you were really sick.”

“What, you thought I was faking it to avoid you? Some ego you have there, Thomas. Take a seat.” 

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” 

“The dog ate it.” Alfie points at the giant dog that Tommy only now notices sitting on the couch next to him. It’s definitely a race, though which one is a mystery. Tommy in grade school only had time for one obsessive hobby, and he chose horse breeds as his object of interest. 

“Is he okay?” Tommy asks, since it seems like the thing to do. Alfie waves it off and gives the dog a friendly belly rub. 

“Oh, Cyril is fine. Say hello to Tommy, Cyril.” 

Cyril dutifully wanders over and places its large head in Tommy’s lap. Tommy doesn’t move and wonders how long he’ll have to wait before it’s socially acceptable to stand up. 

“May I offer you something to drink? I’m afraid all I have is cough syrup, though. I debated going grocery shopping, but then I thought to myself, Alfie, there is a reason the British Empire failed. Tea doesn’t solve everything. Will you be having tap water then?” 

Tommy, who has spent his childhood on increasingly disgusting dares from his brothers, says, “Let’s try the cough syrup” and watches Alfie pour some into a chipped mug. The mug is obviously handmade; it leaks a little. Some of the liquid spills to the floor, only to be immediately slobbered up by Cyril. God, Tommy hates dogs. 

“So,” Alfie says eventually, drawing out the single syllable into unimaginable lengths. “What brings you to into my little abode? Your presence is, may I say, unexpected, though naturally not unwanted.” 

Several possible responses flitter through Tommy’s mind, all of them in the realms of appropriateness, none of them what he wants.

Discarding them all, he blurts out, “If you keep fucking my brother, you’ll reinforce the lesson of free dessert.” 

Alfie looks distinctly amused. His hand reaches up to scratch his beard, and for the first time, Tommy notices the crown-tattoo. What kind of fucking moron gets a tattoo where people can see; he wants to trace it with his fingers. 

“Right. I’m not even going to pretend I know what’s going all there, because quite frankly, I can do without all the fucked up implications of the tragedy that is the Shelby family, so I raise you to this: What’s wrong with free dessert?” 

“Life is harder than that.” 

“Life doesn’t have to be,” Alfie muses. “Though I must say, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. If you were thinking of going with the old flowers and chocolate routine, I regret to inform you that that’s no way of winning my heart, deep condolences, we wish you best success with your ongoing search. J'aime les haricots verts et les hommes petits. That’s french for, Get to your fucking point already or leave.” 

“Alfie,” Tommy says. He says it meaningfully, though what the meaning is, he isn’t sure. 

“Tommy,” Alfie says. He, too, makes it sound meaningful; Tommy thinks he might have a good guess on the meaning of this one. 

They look at each other. Tommy says, “Bringing you home after this will be a bit awkward.” 

Alfie nods. “Your brother will be devastated. Shame about our young love.” 

Tommy kisses him then, and it’s only partly to make Alfie shut the hell up.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel vaguely bad for this because it is decidedly not what the prompt asked for, but I tried, I swear, I tried.  
> Thanks for reading !


End file.
